Raspberries do not blush in the sky

By Amber McCrary

I saw Red when I read
About a red woman who led

She, with ample, almond eyes
And a gritty gumption of words
Concoction of velvet cranberries
spilling out of her mouth
Grinding between a hand, a wrist
A hand to hold in the cold
Then came a taking of her,
Us,
You.

Our wrists and our hands were no longer ours
Our hands could not find their home
All we saw were Cherry lights

I, a red woman, read about
A red woman who was misled

By blemished testosterone
Resembling a pinch of cayenne pepper
Red speckled spice, light enough to float
and sharp enough to numb
a tongue to an eye

On a lonely highway
The air did not smell of sage
But of sour salt slipping out of compliance
Disparaged deterioration

Is it genocide if it’s your own people?
Or cold-blooded murder?
A cutting of the cord

Red Goddess at best
Apple of an informant at least
They took the latter

Raspberries do not blush in the sky
But into dirt ground
Expunged blush spreads
Not on our rounded cheeks
But onto the upper film
Of supple, silky snow
The blush, breaks and bleeds
The purity of the sky
That has landed unscathed

Betrayal is
like the ignoramus of a leech

Amber McCrary is Diné zinester, feminist and writer. She was born in Tuba City, Arizona (Diné Bikeyah), and raised in the border town of Flagstaff, Arizona. In the small town of Flagstaff is where she discovered her love for punk rock and the Do It Yourself Culture.